


Troubled Thoughts

by Blizzard96



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, Reincarnation, What a Catch Donnie (Song), kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 18:59:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2478995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blizzard96/pseuds/Blizzard96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the music video for What A Catch, Donnie. After graduating, Patrick Stump doesn't really know what to do with his life, so he takes his father's offer to go out on a fishing boat for a few months. It's a pretty easy routine at first, until a seagull winds up caught in his ropes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Troubled Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.

            Patrick Stump lived simply. He’d been fairly average all his life, and he grew up in a sleepy little seaside village. His father was a fisherman and his mother worked at a small flower shop wedged between the town’s bakery and bookshop. His parents loved each other and him very much, passing onto their son their love for the ocean, a quiet life and an affinity for music.

            He’d never spent his money on much, maybe a few CD’s or music gear. His mother had signed him up for piano lessons at a very young age and he’d decided to add guitar lessons in middle school. Patrick loved music and spent all his free time in one of his school’s small practice rooms, scribbling notes on his shakily made staff paper and humming sections to himself. He was often quite frustrated with his work because, though the music came to him naturally, lyrics seemed to elude him.

            He lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone, and people weren’t really expected to ever leave the limits the town had. Maybe it was for that reason Patrick Stump decided he needed to get out of there, at least for a while. Staying in town for the rest of his life was a terrifying prospect.

            For this reason, Patrick never really connected with the other kids in his school, and this lasted through his graduation. Sure, he had a few friendly acquaintances, but he was mainly the quiet kid in the back of the room who was always lost in his head. After he graduated, he found himself at quite a loss for what to do with his life.

            His grades were slightly above average, but he knew teenagers from his town rarely went off to big impressive colleges. He’d worked odd jobs around the town’s few stores or service centers, but he had no desire to be employed in that line of business. His mother offered him a job at her flower shop, but he politely refused, saying he probably wouldn’t be a good delivery boy.

            The only line of work he was really interested in was music. He didn’t really know if he had much of a chance making a career out of music though. He’d played the piano in his school’s musicals, but he’d never had quite enough courage to get on stage and sing. He realized that just playing music was what he wanted to do with his life, but he doubted it would work out if he could barely get on stage. He also acknowledged that music was hardly a substantial way to make a living and, only a month out of high school, had become discouraged about his future and taken to moping around the house.

            His father noticed his state and offered to let Patrick take out his fishing boat for a while on his own, thinking Patrick’s dismal attitude was a result of being unemployed. Patrick’s first instinct was to shoot down the idea, he’d never been a fan of fishing, but he realized that a few months alone might benefit him in the long run. And so, still a bit dumbfounded by his risky decision, Patrick packed a suitcase with clothes and took some of the provisions his parents gave him and headed off to the docks.

* * *

 

            The boat was old and small as far as fishing boats went. It had been in Patrick’s family for generations and, though Patrick personally thought it might fall apart at any moment, his father had insisted it was the most sturdy and reliable ship in the ocean. By the time he got to the docks, his own beaten up piano was waiting just near the ship’s plank. It had been one of the few things Patrick had refused to budge on, including his guitar.

            The piano had also been in Patrick’s family for quite a while, the original owner being his grandmother. It was beautiful in an antique sort of way. It was impressively carved, though the keys were yellowed with age and tended to stick sometimes. Patrick knew he was probably being stupid bringing the piano with him and not just his guitar, but he couldn’t bear to be away from the instrument for so long.

            “You Stump?” a gruff voice asked.  Patrick turned to see a grizzled old man standing behind him. He wore a long black raincoat, rubber boots, and dirty under clothes. He eyed Patrick’s piano with distaste and Patrick did his best not to bristle as though he’d been personally offended.

            “Yeah, that’s me,” Patrick replied evenly. The man grunted.

            “I suppose then ya were actually serious about wanting to get this here piano on  yer ship?” he nodded toward the instrument.

            Patrick nodded. “Yeah, I do. Preferably somewhere protected from the environment and stuff that could damage it.” The man grunted again and motioned for another dockworker to help him haul the piano up the plank and onto the ship. Patrick followed them moments later to monitor their work. Surprisingly, they maneuvered the piano into place in a spot below deck and bolted it to the planks so it wouldn’t move around in a storm.

            They had taken the long way down to get the instrument in a good position, but Patrick found he could access the piano easily from the deck by climbing down a ladder. The only other objects in the room were some rope and extra nets, nothing that looked capable of seriously damaging the piano. Patrick threw a tarp over the instrument to help preserve it.

            “Thanks,” Patrick said, watching the men leave exit off the plank.

            “Anything for Stump’s kid,” the dockhand said, a trace of a smile on his face. “Good luck with yer fishing, boy.” And Patrick was alone.

            He shuffled around the deck for a few minutes, half-heartedly checking his fishing supplies and unpacking his suitcase in the small quarters he had. He didn’t have much, other than the food, a few outfits, a stack of blank journals and, of course, his instruments.

            Patrick stocked the kitchen, familiarizing himself with his utensils in the process. He grimaced, wishing he’d gone shopping for new plates and cups when he saw the tin plates and cups he had to work with, but he supposed it was tolerable and it wasn’t like he’d be out at sea for the rest of his life. By this point, Patrick had stalled for as long as he could and decided he should cast off before people started wondering why he was still there.

            He was nervous as he raised the anchor and hauled the plank on board. He quickly returned to the ship’s wheel and turned it away from the coast, away from home, and set off into the ocean. The sky was a clear blue, the waves were dark, and he was alone with his thoughts.

* * *

 

            Patrick’s first day had started with panic. He’d woken up disoriented and had almost fallen on his guitar as he startled out of bed. He’d dressed sluggishly, not worrying that his hair probably looked filthy and opting to throw a cap over it. The boat didn’t really have a shower and Patrick would need to boil some water later to bathe with. He’d boiled some last night before bed, but he was going to use that for his breakfast.

            He made his way down the ship’s narrow hall to the kitchen and started warming up the stove. As it heated, he pulled a pot down from the cupboard and set it on the stovetop before searching for a plate and fork. He dumped some water in the pot and, after it began bubbling, he poured some of the powdered mix his mother had packed so that a soupy grit-like substance was created. It smelled decent enough and his mother had packed cinnamon, so Patrick figured he could probably survive on the stuff for a while and, if he actually managed to catch anything, he might be able to have fish someday as well.

            After a quick breakfast and rinsing his dishes in the sink, Patrick checked his radar and maps to see he’d drifted a bit over night, but it wouldn’t take too long to get back on course. He started up the engine again and his ship was back on course by lunch. His mother had packed plenty of lunchmeat and bread, so Patrick didn’t really worry about that. His mother was always prepared for anything, so food was probably the least of his worries quantity wise, though the taste might leave something to be desired.

            The ship had reached its first fishing location shortly after he’d finished his small lunch. He’d spent a lot of the morning checking his bait stores (his father had prepared everything, perhaps even over prepared) and nets. After lunch, he cut the motor and set up one of the fishing nets, sending it down into the ocean. Shortly afterward he set up a lawn chair by the side of the boat, a small side table and a fishing pole.

            He fully intended to spend the day fishing and relaxing, maybe reading some of that new book, playing a CD on his ancient boom box or messing around with his guitar. For the first time since he graduated, Patrick didn’t feel stressed.

            The afternoon passed leisurely. Once or twice Patrick reeled in the fishing line when it gave a jerk, but the first time had been a false alarm and the second time the fish had gotten away and Patrick had had to replaced the bait. He was a bit disappointed by the latter occurrence, but he told himself it was only his first day and he was still learning. Eventually the freezer hold below deck would be full of fish.

            Though his fishing skills left a bit to be desired, Patrick was finding a lot of inspiration out on the sea. His lyrics were still not fully formed, but he was coming up with a lot of great music. By the time he decided it was time for dinner, he was satisfied with how his first day had gone. He was so content, in fact, he decided to eat dinner on deck and watch flocks of seagulls fly overhead. Patrick could certainly get used to the slower pace of life.

* * *

 

            After that, Patrick fell into a routine. He would wake up, eat breakfast, set up his net, fish a bit, eat lunch, fish some more, eat dinner, reel in his net and go to bed. There were only small changes to his routine, some of which included hauling the fish in his net down to the below deck freezer, occasionally swabbing the deck when it began to smell too much like sea life, and consulting his map. But every day without fail, right before going to sleep, Patrick would journey down to the piano and try out his songs.

            One of his compositions was coming along nicely, and he was pretty sure his lyrics for this particular tune were as good as he could make them. Since he was alone on his boat, he sang with carefree abandon. His voice echoed around the hold where he played and he didn’t flinch like he usually did when he heard a recording of himself.

            Despite this, a couple of weeks into his routine, Patrick began feeling a bit lonely. At first he dismissed it as childish homesickness, but eventually he realized he was really alone. When he returned ashore, his parents would be there, waiting for him, but who else really? His friends would have all moved on, whether it be on to college or getting a job, and then he would be forced to decide what he wanted to do with his life.

            These concerns only grew as his time on the ship went on, and by the time his first month was over, Patrick was almost as stressed as he had been graduating high school. The only escape he got from his thoughts was when he was occupied writing music or hauling in a catch. At night he tossed and turned in a way that had nothing to do with the ship’s gentle rocking on the waves. What and who would he actually be returning to? Wouldn’t it just be better to stay at sea for the rest of his life?

* * *

            Patrick’s clockwork routine was broken one morning by a bird. It was a seagull, to be exact. Patrick had been dozing on his bed, taking a nap after having barely steered his ship out of a storm, when he heard a thump and some agitated squawking come from above deck. Concerned, he pulled on his jacket and darted up to see a seagull flapping its wings wildly, one of its legs stuck in the rope coils.

            “Whoa, hey there little guy!” Patrick muttered, trying to calm the distressed bird. He kept his fingers well out of its beak’s range. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said soothingly, though he doubted the bird understood him. Surprisingly, it settled down a bit and allowed Patrick to handle it. Patrick gently untangled the bird’s foot from the coils and set it down on the deck, expecting the bird to fly off. He frowned when it hopped around a bit instead, obviously having no intention of leaving his ship.

            “Suit yourself,” Patrick muttered with a shrug, turning around to go back to his nap. He took a step toward the doors below deck. The bird followed him. “What?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Do you want some food?” The bird cocked its head. Patrick sighed. “If I feed you, you’ll never leave me alone.”

            The bird opened and closed its beak as if saying, “I’m not going to leave you alone anyways, so deal with it.”

            “I’m going to regret this,” Patrick muttered, but he walked back down the stairs to his kitchen, the bird following him with its little hops.

            “Here, eat up,” Patrick said, tossing the seagull a small tuna after it had flapped up on top of his table. The bird gulped the fish and settled down near Patrick’s plate.

            “You’re pretty strange, you know that?” Patrick asked, taking a seat and staring at the bird. “You’re probably one of those gulls all the tourists feed, so you aren’t scared of humans anymore.” The bird seemed to ruffle its feathers in irritation. “I must be pretty lonely if I’m talking to a gull,” Patrick muttered. The seagull tilted its head in what Patrick imagined was agreement. “Well, if you’re gonna stick around, you need a name. Gabe?”

            The gull let out a sound between a squawk and a screech that sounded like a resounding no.

            “Gerard? Michael? Billie?” The bird let out negative squawks after every suggestion. “Well, you aren’t being very helpful,” Patrick huffed. The bird just gave him a seagull equivalent of a disapproving glare. “You know what, I’ll just call you Pete, okay?” To Patrick’s surprise, the bird seemed to accept its new name. “Seriously? Pete?”

* * *

 

            The seagull, Pete, was really odd, Patrick mused. There were times when he could’ve sworn the bird understood him, and it was kind of weirding him out. At first, he’d talked to the bird about his loneliness and how much of a loser he was for talking to the seagull, but oddly enough the bird seemed to comprehend his words. It would squawk in all the right places, seeming to agree with Patrick when he would talk about his music and disagree whenever he made a self-deprecating comment. Though the bird had only been aboard about two days, it was like having another person on his ship.

            Not to mention, Pete followed him everywhere. It would hop around after him and sit at the breakfast table. When Patrick was in his lawn chair strumming his guitar and jotting down notes, the bird would stare at his staff paper and listen to him sing. Pete liked to perch on top of the piano while Patrick practiced and it slept in a porthole over Patrick’s bed. The seagull seemed to meld seamlessly into Patrick’s routine most of the time.

            However, there were some days when Pete wouldn’t follow Patrick. Certain days the seagull would just hop out on the deck and face the ocean, as if staring at something Patrick couldn’t see. Patrick had to admit, he was curious about what the seagull was looking for, so he threw his own route out and began steering his ship in the direction the seagull faced when it would stare off into the ocean. He tried telling himself it was because seagulls usually knew where fish were, but he privately admitted he was just curious because Pete really didn’t behave like a normal seagull and Patrick just wanted to know why.

            Another strange thing that happened immediately after Pete had came aboard Patrick’s ship was that Patrick no longer struggled with finding lyrics. The seagull would just sit by him on deck, staring at Patrick’s notes, and suddenly Patrick would find the words, beautiful words, to match his rhythms and music.

            “How about this?” Patrick said to Pete. He found that talking aloud to the seagull as if it actually were a person helped him write. Patrick was staring at his staff paper and Pete seemed to be staring at the notes too. “And I knew that the lights of the city were too heavy for me/ though I carried karats for everyone to see/ and I saw God cry in the reflection of my enemies/ and all the lovers with no time for me/ and all of the mothers raised their babies/ to stay away from me.”

            Pete cocked its head to the side. Patrick had become better at reading the seagull’s movements and that usually meant approval, unless it meant something along the lines of “go get me more tuna”.

            “Yeah, I think it works,” Patrick said, scribbling the words in. There was only one song he was working on that Pete hadn’t helped with, but that was because Patrick had had it written before he’d found Pete. It was sitting in the journal on his bedside table and, for whatever reason, he didn’t really want to sing it, even if he was essentially alone. It just felt like it wasn’t time to sing it, and it still needed a good title.

* * *

 

            They were fishing one day, a week after Patrick had found the seagull struggling in the rope, and Pete was perched on the side of the ship while Patrick scribbled notes in his journal. Patrick watched his fishing line dip. He sighed and set his journal down, page still open to his lyrics, and grabbed the pole. These days, his loneliness was held back by, oddly enough, Pete’s company, and his music was coming along nicely. Patrick was even considering looking into music he could do back home, maybe play in a bar or something while he looked for a job.

            He frowned as the pole’s end dipped lower. He’d never caught a fish of this scale before, even though the freezer below deck was starting to get full. The fish tugged downward and Patrick struggled with his pole as a white blob got closer to the surface. His jaw dropped as a full rack of deer antlers emerged from the water, the tip of a horn snagged by his hook. He reeled it in quickly before it could fall off and swung it over the railing, narrowly missing Pete.

            “What the heck?” Patrick breathed, unhooking the antlers. “Last time I checked, there were no horned fish like this.” He examined the antlers. They were clean, like they should be mounted on a wall, and glowing white. He glanced over at Pete who simply cocked its head. “I hope some redneck just accidentally lost these and there’s not some sea monster that somehow managed to eat a deer out here,” Patrick muttered to the bird.

            Patrick cast his line back over hesitantly; afraid he might find whatever killed a deer and dragged it into the water. He almost dropped his pole overboard as the end dipped again, only barely managing to tighten his grip in time.

            “Please be an actual fish,” he begged, reeling in his line. He felt a bit of relief when the object he hooked seemed lighter than the deer antlers, but frowned when he saw a large black mass approaching the surface.

            He hauled it out to find he’d hooked a black pinstriped button down. “Okay…” he muttered, unhooking the dripping fabric. He stared down at it in confusion. “You think it’s in my size?” he asked Pete, holding the shirt in front of him. He imagined the seagull rolling its eyes. “Well, I guess this would be more reasonable to find in the ocean than deer antlers. I’m almost scared to cast out again,” Patrick admitted, glancing out at the water. He sighed and baited his hook again, casting the line out.

            “Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed, on the verge of yelling when his line once more dipped below the waves and sank at an alarming rate. “And this one’s huge!” he grunted reeling his line in. Pete let out a screech. A shape finally popped up above the waves and began to float on the surface of the water. “I-Is that a drum?” Patrick asked the gull in disbelief, staring at the object. The bird just ruffled its feathers unhelpfully. He continued to reel it in, struggling when the drum finally left the water and was lifted over the rail.

            “Okay, actually what the heck?” Patrick asked, staring dumbfounded at the drum. It was a nice drum, a muted yellow, with a faded brand on it. Patrick used to play the drums in middle school, but kind of dropped them, as learning three instruments at a time was a challenge, even for someone as musically interested as him. “This sounds like the start of a bad joke,” he said, staring down at the items and shaking his head. Pete let out a screech, its head fixed on a point on the ocean. Patrick turned to see what the gull was screeching at, and his jaw dropped as he watched three giant letters, like those from a billboard, float past the ship. Why anyone would have the letters FOB was beyond him. Pete was still making noises and it was starting to feel like a bad dream to Patrick.

            “What?” Patrick sighed, intending the gull a look to silence it and then freezing. “What the…? Is that a coffin?” He looked past the coffin to see a small outline on the horizon of a rowboat with a large white flag. Patrick grabbed his binoculars to get a better look and saw that it wasn’t just one rowboat, but a group of three of them, one of which had a large white flag fashioned out of what appeared to be a bed sheet. “Holy smokes,” Patrick muttered, setting his binoculars down and rushing over to the steering wheel.

            He spun the wheel on a hard left and changed course to the three rowboats. As Patrick raced toward them, the rowboat’s occupants soon spotted him and started waving furiously. He yelled to them that he would pull up alongside them and lower a rope ladder for them to climb up. They all looked relieved and waited for Patrick to dart below deck and grab the rope near his piano.

            He tossed it over board to the nearest rowboat and its occupants started to climb, the other boats moving closer so they could get aboard soon as well. Patrick helped them get over the railing, each one of them thanking him profusely until his ears were bright red and he was awkwardly stuttering not to mention it.

            By the time the last person was aboard, the deck was crowded and blankets were being passed out. Despite the fact that quite a few people were soaking wet and it was starting to get chilly, many of them were smiling, laughing, and talking together excitedly. Patrick had just returned from below deck with more spare blankets and announced that soup was almost done, a statement that was greeted with cheers.

            “I can’t begin to thank you enough,” a man said as he took the blankets from Patrick. He was pretty tall and he had an impressive amount of hair that Patrick had to respect. “Joe,” the man introduced himself, extending a hand from under the mountain of blankets.

            “Patrick,” Patrick replied, grinning and shaking his hand. “And don’t mention it. Can I ask what happened?” Joe grimaced. “I mean, you don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready,” Patrick backtracked. “Sorry, didn’t mean to push.”

            “No, no, it’s fine,” Joe said. “It’s just… none of us were expecting it.” He passed the blankets off to another guy to hand out and walked with Patrick to the kitchen. “Okay, so my friends and I had a band, and we’d just finished playing this small gig and we decided to celebrate with a few friends by going out sailing a bit. My friend…” Joe trailed off and bit his lip. He took a deep breath and started again. “My friend Pete owns… owned, this yacht. Well, it was kind of his parent’s but he got permission to use it. So we sailed maybe a little further than what we were supposed to, but it looked fine. I mean, clear skies and everything.

“Suddenly, out of nowhere, there’s this huge storm. Giant waves, wind, the whole shebang. Everyone’s out on deck, of course. We were partying one second, the next, people are running around grabbing life jackets and then there’s this huge, I mean massive, wave coming for the ship. It swamps us. The ship’s tilted and it’s sinking. Everyone’s yelling and running for the lifeboats. Andy, he’s the drummer, is grabbing people and shoving them in a lifeboat while other people are trying to convince him to get in one himself. He keeps shaking his head and saying that all the girls need to get off before he does. Pete was steering the thing, but he came down and he’s handing out life vests and all the food and stuff and making sure it all gets on the boats.

“Weirdly enough, the evacuation goes well. Two of the lifeboats are already out and I’m helping Pete lower the third one. Andy’s already in the water and he’s trying to get the lifeboats organized by seeing what supplies each one has. Anyways, we’re lowering this thing and we hear this big cracking sound. Pete and I just look at each other and we know something serious is about to happen and we need to get this boat in the water. We’re already starting to lose our own footing. And then Pete…” Joe swallowed. “Pete just pushed me into the boat and lowered it the rest of the way while he’s still on deck and cut it loose. So I’m yelling at him to jump in the water so he can swim out to the boat. Pete nods and he puts his foot on the railing and the railing gives. When I told him to jump, we both knew he had to get as far away from the boat as possible because we’d both seen Titanic and we knew that boats create a sort of whirlpool when they sink. But Pete just fell instead and he got sucked down.” Joe paused and Patrick let him collect himself. “We kept hoping he would surface, but I guess the pull was too strong.” Patrick began distributing soup into bowls and setting them on a cart he found in the back of the freezer.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Patrick said sincerely. “He sounds like a brave man.”

“He was,” Joe agreed. “He’d probably write some song about how the captain should go down with his ship…” He let out a breath. “Anyways, after the ship sank, we were drifting in the rowboats for a while. The storm had shook us up so that we didn’t know which way land was, and we didn’t want to row very far in case we were rowing in the wrong direction. We’d been drifting for about a week by the time you showed up. We were almost out of supplies.”

“Well, I don’t know where you guys are from, but I can take you back to my town,” Patrick said, loading the last of the soup onto the cart and beginning to wheel it back up to the deck with Joe following and helping him lift it up the stairs. Patrick described where his town was briefly and Joe replied they didn’t live more than twenty minutes from it by car. “There’s a hotel there for you all to spend the night and arrange rides back to your place. I’m sure Mrs. Toro won’t even charge you.”

“Thank you,” Joe said again. “This means a lot.”

“Any person would’ve done the same,” Patrick said. They reached the deck and were greeted with cheers.

* * *

 

“We’ll be back in town in about three days,” Patrick announced the next morning. All the castaways were recovering well and Patrick was doing his best to keep them all warm and fed. Luckily, he had more than enough fish and food to keep them all satisfied until they reached land and they had their remaining provisions from the lifeboats as well.

“Three days, huh?” a teen next to Patrick asked. Patrick grinned and nodded at him. The kid, Brendon, was actually not that much younger than Patrick, but he had such a youthful exuberance that Patrick imagined it was kind of like what having a kid brother felt like. Ever since Patrick had fished them out of the water, Brendon had been exploring the ship and asking about living at sea.

Brendon especially, along with Andy and Joe, had been interested when they learned that Patrick played the piano and guitar along with writing music. The kid had discovered the piano first, and Patrick had been pleased to learn that he was quite talented at playing it. Brendon had also glimpsed some of Patrick’s songs and immediately taken a liking to the one Patrick had titled “Dance, Dance”.

On the third day, hours before they arrived at shore, Patrick realized why something had felt off after he’d picked up all the castaways. He hadn’t seen Pete at all since the rescue, even though the bird had practically been attached to Patrick after he freed it from the rope. Patrick left the steering to Andy and went in search of the seagull.

“Hey, Joe!” Patrick called, getting the other man’s attention. Joe had taken up fishing to pass the time.  “I have a kind of weird question.” Joe made a ‘go on’ gesture. “Have you seen a seagull around here anywhere. It’s really tame and kind of odd.”

“Sorry,” Joe replied, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen it.”

“Okay, thanks,” Patrick said, setting off below deck. Maybe the bird had gone to its favorite perch on the piano. When Patrick reached the piano room, he didn’t find Pete, but he did find Brendon.

“Hey Patrick!” Brendon grinned, looking up from the keys. “I’m just trying to figure out the rhythm of the Dance, Dance song!”

“That’s fine,” Patrick said, smiling back. “Um, have you seen a seagull around here?”

Brendon scrunched his face up. “A seagull? No, can’t say that I have. Why?”

“No reason,” Patrick said quickly. “Good luck with the music. I liked that last thing you played.”

“Oh, that?” Brendon grinned sheepishly. “I just made it up last night. I was messing around and I was getting tired which was weird because it was only nine in the afternoon, I mean evening.” He frowned. “Maybe I do need more sleep.”

Patrick laughed. “Getting sleep is important.” He left Brendon to his composing. “Now where could Pete have gone?” he muttered. He’d checked the kitchen, above deck, the piano room and the study. Patrick sighed and headed back to his own room and flop on his bed.

“What the…?” He shot back up as he heard paper crinkle beneath him, only to see he’d just landed on his music for his complete song. “Great,” he muttered, smoothing out the page. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw none of the notes had smeared, but frowned when he saw words toward the top of the music that definitely weren’t his own.

At the top center of the page, in neat handwriting, were the words “What A Catch, Donnie” which were obviously intended to be the title of Patrick’s song. Patrick frowned as he noticed more words at the bottom of the page in the same handwriting.

_Thanks for finding them and finding me._

_-Pete_

Patrick frowned. He remembered that Pete, in addition to being the name of his seagull, was also the name of the guy who died in the shipwreck, but surely this was too much of a stretch. The fact that he’d named his seagull the exact same thing had to be a coincidence. But then who was the letter from? Patrick shook his head, folded up the music and shoved it in his pocket. Those questions would have to wait for a later day. They were about to land.

* * *

 

They were all gathered at a bar that night. The shipwreck survivors would be heading home in the morning, but now they were gathered at the town’s bar to celebrate making it home and to mourn Pete Wentz. Everyone called Patrick a hero, which embarrassed him to no end, and no one would let him pay for drinks that night. Patrick was silently thankful he didn’t drink much, if at all.

Around eleven, they opened the mic to anyone who wanted to sing and half the shipwreck survivors, Patrick found, had incredible voices, especially Brendon. Patrick guessed that made sense considering they’d been out on the ship celebrating a band gig.

“You know,” Brendon said to Patrick after he’d finished his cover of Patrick’s song, Dance, Dance. “You should get up there and sing too.”

Patrick balked. “I can’t really sing well,” he muttered.

Brendon snorted. “Please. I’ve heard you sing while you’re cooking. You have a great voice.” Patrick sighed realizing that Brendon would continue to pester him until he gave in.

“Fine. But one song. One.” Brendon grinned and shoved him toward the stage. Everyone cheered as he got up there. “Uh, hi,” he said. Brendon gave him a thumbs up and he suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Um, Brendon thinks I should sing a song, so sorry if it’s not that great.”

Patrick thought back to his time on the ship when he was alone, and pretty content with that, until a seagull got stuck in his ropes. And then everything changed. Could the seagull have been Pete? It sounded ridiculous, but it didn’t matter because there was no way his life was going back to normal after this.

“Uh, so this one’s called, ‘What A Catch, Donnie’,” Patrick said, grabbing the guitar that was left on stage and stepping up to the mic. “I got troubled thoughts/ and the self-esteem to match/ what a catch, what a catch…”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is the first work I've written for Archive of Our Own! I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a comment to tell me how I did and what you liked and what I can improve on. Thanks!


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